It isn’t easy being a new-build Here in Dorchester town, With such a shining example besides them, Flaunting its global renown. An over-achieving older-sibling, Rich in charm and style – Well, no wonder the new kids look so miffed, With not a facade with a smile. I guess their neighbour’s one-in-a-million, Bricks of a vanished strain – And that’ll explain why we’re so unable To build so well again… So the latest estates must make-do with bland, With a shrug from the half-arsed and bored, While the decadent suburb that lies to the West Is so desperately ignored.
Thank goodness AI has far more imagination and originality than HAL…
A Space Ploddyssey
As Kubrick prophesised When the ape-men went exploring – Space is vast, and time is slow, And the future will be boring. Red suited, black oblonged, Very very small – Man is dumb when met by wonder, Stanley most of all.
The first three minutes of the movie are a black screen. I’ve heard this described as the ‘overture’, a not-unknown feature of big blockbusters in the Sixties. Thinking about it, this moment does indeed pull together all of the tedium scattered through the film into one masterpiece of Cageian vacuum…
More seriously, there is the interview between the BBC and Frank and I’m-Sorry-Dave. It takes seven minutes for each transmission to travel one way, so the crew give their answer, and have to wait fourteen minutes until they get their reply (plus the time to record the reply, unless it’s being streamed live). Shouldn’t we next see them looking as if they had actually got up and done stuff in those fourteen minutes, rather than look as if we rejoin them five seconds later ? The fact that the film prioritises the suggestion that they are so dull they would happily remain sat in silence than have any moments of – human interaction, work, getting a drink, their hair getting a bit mussed-up, even unintentionally swapping places – says everything about why this film and I can never be friends.
The trouble with a labyrinth, Is that it feels so foreign – Is that it has no logic To its endless winding paths. No hierarchy separating Avenues from warrens, As we trudge the many mazes On our lost and aching calves.
Our only means of finding out The route into the centre Is by choosing random tracks And by try-and-try-again – With a dozen unsigned junctions And a dozen doors to enter, To a dozen cul-de-sacs, And a single golden lane.
It makes sense in a dungeon, With its safety-at-all-cost, Or even on a garden, Where the mapless lovers sally – But why are city planners Quite so keen to get us lost ? Or to meet a Minotaur Down a twisty, unlit alley…?
Is anything more boring Than another psychopath ? He’s the laziest of monsters, That we’re somehow meant to fear. Just a clichéd bogeyman, Who’s killing for a laugh – Ho-hum, the same old slasher Whom they think we’ll dread or cheer.
Is this another true-live nutter, After fame at any price ? And we’re determined to reward them, Cos we’re really dumb. Or is it just a fantasy Of living through their vice ? Getting all our jollies Till our empathy is numb.
The theatre is haunted, of course, Because, well, you know actors… An ingenue, I think, or else a restless dame – Or was the spectral source A longtime patron, or some benefactors Still attending shows just like they always came ? Expectation’s such a force And narratives are such attractors – No stage worth its boards can be without its ghostly claim. The theatre is haunted, of course – That must be the common factor, Why both the roof and the backstage gossip leak-out just the same.
Capitals, corbels, Etchings and baubles, Littered by the sculptors, Foisted by the smiths. Serifs and analogues, Grace notes and shaggy dogs, Wasting their energies With tales and jokes and myths. We tell them ev’ry time That ornament’s a crime – But they keep on disobeying As before. They’ll never realise Till we poke them in the eyes, To teach the little ingrates Less is more.
It’s the silence that hurts the most – When our efforts are all ignored. We’re never told what we’re doing wrong, When our souls are mutely scored. Did I offend you ? Or bore you rigid ? Is my writing just too bleak ? So why can I not find people like me ? Am I really so unique ? I send my children into the void To no reaction at all, Even a groan at least shows you looked – But I just bounce off your wall. And yet, I know that I ignored others When their work neither sang nor stung – I’m just as guilty, crushing their dreams By politely holding my tongue.
A bird fell down the flue last month, And panicked round the sitting room – Raising a squawk and spraying the soot, Till shooed-away with a gentle broom. Why did we have a chimney, anyway ? We never light it ! A useless shaft ! Indeed, where was the bundle of rags We’d stuffed-up the hole to stop the draught ? Time to give it a final sweep, And check it for cracks, and bring in a brickie. An open fire may be romantic, But getting the logs is increasingly tricky. And let’s get a platform placed in the pot, up top, To hold their twigs, And let their charcoal wings replace the smoke Of their rooftop digs.
“It isn’t the resident tenants that make a city ugly, but rather the absentee planners.”
The Blueprint Bugle
Vienna is bursting with tourists, While Croydon is thoroughly dead – We all know why the one has the more is, And one is a ghetto instead. One has buildings of beauty That people will pay to admire – The other is screaming out “Nuke me !, And raze all my ugly in fire.”
Oh sure, that intangible culture takes many a-century To embed and to reign – But if your town looks more like a penitentiary, Then you’re waiting in vain.
Venice is sinking in people, While Stevenage wallows in grime – We all know why the latter is feeble, And looks like the scene of a crime. One has buildings of grandeur, That travellers travel to see, The other is yelling-out slander With a nihilistic glee.
And it doesn’t take castles and squares and cathedrals To still have plenty of charms – But it does take some sense, and lack of upheavals From brutalists swinging their arms.
Paris is famous for beauty, And Slough is famous for bombs – We all know why the one is a cutie, And one won’t get asked to the prom. One has buildings for humans, That are sculpted, and tiled, and embossed. The other is built for consumers With the ornaments cut-out for cost.
We know it deep down in our footings, this concrete-clad craze Is simply so unrefined. If it ain’t Manhattan, then high-rise ain’t for the holidays, But for the daily grind.
Please note that for the rhythm to work in the second verse, ‘century’ needs to be given it’s full there syllables, and ‘penitentiary’ it’s full six.
Rhyming Couplets 